


Harbour Snippet : Search and Rescue

by cywscross



Series: The Harbour [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Older Stiles Stilinski, Polyamory, Rescue Missions, Steter Week 2018, Threesome - M/M/M, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 10:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15386859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: Search and rescue is a pain in the ass.





	Harbour Snippet : Search and Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> Steter Week 2018.

 

Peter spends the first two days of the rainy season sitting out on the balcony in a beanbag chair, wrapped in a cozy throw blanket with a mug of hot tea and a book in hand while the storm rages around him. The magic-reinforced glass ensures that he’s perfectly safe, but if he sits there long enough, it almost feels like the land itself is shaking.

Chris of course is nowhere near as enthusiastic. On Monday morning, he peers out the window at seven AM, swears, and trudges outside in his rain gear to ready the boat. Even Stiles makes a face when he stumbles downstairs, bleary-eyed as usual as he makes his way over to the coffee machine to down his weight in caffeine in preparation for the wards around one of the office buildings in town that he has to repair today because a stray bolt of lightning managed to char half the runes surrounding it.

“I _told_ Quinton not to leave outfitting his wards for winter to the last minute but did he listen?” Stiles grumbles in a foul mood. “Of fucking course not.”

He stomps off, presumably to grab a shower and get changed, coffee still in hand.

Peter sympathizes. Stupidity is never fun to deal with.

He starts making breakfast instead. Good food will probably cheer his mates up at least a little, and he can’t say he’d mind heading out only after eating a warm breakfast first either. The bookstore may provide a roof over his head but that doesn’t mean he has any desire to go into work wet _and_ hungry.

It’s another forty-five minutes before they’re piling out the door. The water level’s risen a third of the way up the steps, which means they end up wading the last few feet thigh-deep in water in order to get to the boat.

Peter is pleasantly surprised when he finds the interior of the boat completely dry, and the lashing wind and rain around them glances right off some kind of invisible barrier surrounding the water vessel from railing to ceiling.

A magical boat. Why not?

“I don’t usually mind some excess water,” Chris says by way of explanation as he begins pulling up the anchor. “But we’ll never make it over in this weather without the shields up.” He glances up at the house. “Stiles! Come on!”

“I’m coming!” Stiles hollers back over the roar of the storm as he hauls the door shut and locks it before clattering down the stairs and scrambling onto the boat. Steam rises from his clothes as the heating runes sear away most of the rainwater, and as soon as he’s settled in the seat beside Peter’s, Chris is pulling away from the dock.

It’s an exhilarating experience, in Peter’s opinion. In his defense, he’s never been on a boat as the waters below do their level best to sink them.

“Most people would be afraid,” Stiles tells him dryly, one hand on the rail as the other spreads open the schematics of a ward configuration.

Peter just smirks, flashing fang as he leans over the railing, rain pelting him in the face as he rides the buck of a wave. “I’m not most people.”

“If you fall in,” Chris calls back from where he’s steering the boat, quite expertly navigating the Harbour and almost looking like he’s enjoying himself. “I’m not fishing you out.”

Peter rolls his eyes, unconcerned. He has werewolf strength, he can swim, and even if he can’t, Chris is a lying liar who lies.

They make it to the mainland without trouble, even if it did take an extra fifteen minutes.

“G’morning!” Gian, manning the docks today, practically skips over in shirt and shorts, the few patches of scales that even his human form can’t hide shining a muted silver through the pouring rain. “Great weather today, isn’t it?”

Chris glares at him from where he’s wrestling with the rope. Gian just laughs and obligingly moves forward to help.

Peter opens his umbrella as soon as he steps onto the dock, which immediately blocks out the rain on all sides instead of just above. Thank god for Stiles and magical umbrellas. He’s enjoying the weather too but that doesn’t mean he wants to be soaked to the bone for the rest of the day.

He glances at Stiles and has to suppress a fond smile. The younger man’s wrapped up in a bright red poncho, zipped up all the way with only his eyes peeking out as he fumbles with the latch on his toolbox, and he looks absolutely adorable. Peter meets Chris’ eyes as the man straightens up, and judging by the quirk of his lips, Peter doesn’t need to smell the amusement on him to tell he’s thinking the same thing.

They bid Gian a good day before heading off into town.

“We’ll meet back here when we get off work,” Stiles shouts over the howl of the wind as they stop at the resort’s entrance to drop Chris off.

Chris nods, squeezes Stiles’ wrist and brushes a hand over Peter’s shoulder before heading inside, and Stiles and Peter continue on to their respective destinations. The bookshop Peter works at comes first so he veers off as well after dropping a rain-damp kiss on Stiles’ lips.

Imani greets him at the door by throwing a box of plastic bags at him.

“No mud or water anywhere near my books or my hardwood floors,” The sphinx warns. “But hurry up-- we have a new stack of Greek manuscripts to file into the archive today, and three orders of Latin-to-English translations are due by Friday so you’ll be taking one home with you. Chop chop.”

And then she flounces off, a ghostly impression of a lion’s tail waving briefly behind her before disappearing again. Peter very pointedly rolls his eyes at her back but quickly sets about shedding his coat and boots in the backroom and spreading the bags underneath the coat-rack to catch the drip of water.

New Greek manuscripts. And Imani always lets him have his pick of incoming texts first before they join the others on the shelves.

He loves his job.

 

* * *

 

A week goes by, then two. The storms continue rolling through, raging even more severely lately, but the house is sturdy, and the walls stand strong. A small fire crackles in the fireplace while Peter reads on the couch, feet nestled against Chris’ hip. Chris is sitting on the opposite end with his laptop open, familiarizing himself with a new model of yacht that the resort is thinking of renting out once the storms let up but before the first snowfall.

The phone rings, but it cuts off after a few seconds, and Peter can hear Stiles’ voice upstairs, if not any actual words. And then footsteps hurry down, and he and Chris both look up, sensing the urgency even before Stiles storms into the room, irritation and reluctant concern painting his features.

Chris groans, apparently figuring out what’s going on without Stiles saying a word. Peter looks between them and arches an eyebrow.

Stiles holds up the cordless. “That was the coast guard. Apparently, some tourist kids decided it would be fun to dare each other to sneak out at night and head down below the waterline that’s been marked off as a danger zone for the past four days. One of ’em was at least smart enough to chicken out before they left the resort, but when her friends didn’t come back, she ran to their parents, and their parents have been threatening to sue everyone in sight ever since.” Stiles tosses the phone onto an armchair in disgust. “Harbour patrol’s already combing the waters but they want all hands on deck. The brats picked a hell of a night to test their mortality - this storm’s the worst one we’ve had this year. The merfolk and nymphs have been contacted already but we’re on the list for emergencies like this too so we’re up.”

Chris is already on his feet and stripping out of his sleep shirt, but Stiles pauses and directs at Peter, “You don’t have to come. We haven’t even explained the emergency directory to you yet-”

Peter rolls his eyes hard enough that he’s surprised he doesn’t strain himself. “Don’t be an idiot, Stiles. Of course I’m coming.” He eyes the nearby window before grimacing. “I… probably won’t be able to swim very well in this weather, but I can pull people onto the boat while Chris steers. An extra pair of hands won’t hurt.”

Stiles beams at him before bounding for the stairs again. “Come on then! I’ll lend you a wetsuit! You won’t want to be wearing regular clothes once we’re out there.”

 

* * *

 

The Harbour at night feels like sailing headlong into the abyss. Even Peter with a werewolf’s eyesight probably wouldn’t have been able to see anything without the boat’s floodlights cranked up high. The shields on the other hand are down to twenty percent, which makes Chris look faintly murderous as water sloshes onto the boat with every wild wave. But any higher, and the safety features will kick in, which won’t allow anybody onboard except the three of them, and it won’t allow any of them to dive out of the boat either unless the vessel starts taking on too much water and deems its passengers to be better off abandoning ship.

They speed out into the cove towards the area the coast guard asked them to search, relatively close to where the five kids said they would be “seeing who could stay in the longest”. Sixteen-year-olds without a whit of sense, apparently. It’s Peter’s first time out on a search-and-rescue mission, and he already understands why neither Stiles nor Chris looked particularly happy about this bullshit. They’ll do their best to save them all the same, but this _wouldn’t be necessary_ if outsiders would just _heed the multiple warnings they’re given_ when they check into the resort, not to mention the _multiple signs in capital letters_ lining the docks and beaches.

A slap of icy water smacks Peter in the face, and he snarls as he shoves his hair back and out of his eyes. The wetsuit was definitely a good idea.

“Do we need to worry about lightning strikes?” He shouts over the storm when a clap of thunder  booms loud in the heavy clouds above.

Stiles glances up briefly before shouting back, “Nah, it’s fine! The thunderbirds are out! They’ll redirect any lightning to safer areas!”

Peter blinks at that, and then hastily shunts that new information to the back of his mind for later. He didn’t know the Harbour had _thunderbirds_ though. He wonders what-

Stiles elbows him in the ribs, and Peter has the sense to look sheepish at the flat look Stiles is aiming at him.

Right. Later.

Damn kids.

It’s almost twenty minutes into their search before Peter finally spots movement, a flash of a flailing limb in the murky deep.

“There!” He shouts, pointing. “Chris! You just passed one!”

A minute later, Stiles - eyes gleaming gold - is diving into the water with a lifebuoy in hand while Peter braces himself against the railing as he stares anxiously after his lover’s faintly glowing form, his gaze slitted against the rain. A violent buck of the boat almost pitches him overboard but he grits his teeth and hangs on while Chris mutters something he can’t hear and struggles to keep them in one place.

It takes an agonizing ten minutes for Stiles to loop the lifebuoy around the boy they’ve found, still conscious and treading around so wildly that he almost hits Stiles a few times. Peter immediately reels him in the moment Stiles gives him the okay, and if he’s not as gentle as he could be as he hauls the teenager onboard and dumps him onto a seat, there’s nobody to call him out on it. The coughing teenager certainly doesn’t have the breath for it at the moment.

“Hang on to the railing!” Peter snaps at the boy once he’s made sure Stiles is - relatively - safely onboard as well.

Said boy - even through chattering teeth and his brush with death - bristles a little at being told what to do.

Stiles cuts in even as he begins digging into one of the storage spaces under the seats. “Jackson, shut up and hold onto the railing.”

The kid goes still. Peter blinks. He wasn’t aware they were told their names, not to mention how would stiles know which name went with which face?

“ _Stiles?_ ” Jackson croaks out. “Since when did you become a lifeguard?”

“Never,” Stiles retorts flatly as he retrieves a few towels, passing one to Peter and tossing another at Jackson. “Now _hang on to the railing_ because I swear to god if you fall overboard, we’re not saving your ass again.”

Jackson gapes. And then he wraps an arm around the railing and hangs on.

Peter raises an eyebrow before wiping his face. Stiles scrubs at his hair with his but both towels are soaked through within seconds from the rainwater.

“He’s from Beacon Hills,” Stiles explains in response to Peter’s unspoken question. “His dad’s the district attorney, used to come into the station for business, and sometimes he brought Jackson. I used to babysit him, keep him entertained while he was there.”

“You didn’t babysit me,” Jackson mutters mutinously. “I didn’t need a babysitter. And you were only like six years older than me!”

Stiles rolls his eyes and pushes to his feet. “Considering you’re still just as much of an idiot as when you tried to _break into the evidence locker for fun_ , I’d say you never outgrew the need for a babysitter in the first place. Now shut up and try not to die. At least wait until you’re not my responsibility anymore before you do any _more_ dumb shit.”

And with that said, he heads over to where Chris has just gotten off the radio. Peter watches Stiles for a moment. The jittery tension is well-hidden but Peter knows Stiles doesn’t like things that remind him of Beacon Hills.

Not like Peter can’t understand that. And they all have their triggers even now.

Thankfully, Jackson stays silent as they start the search again, but they don’t find anyone else, and even Peter is tiring as an hour and a half goes by with nothing to show for their efforts. His back is aching, and he’s lost count of the number of times he’s almost fallen overboard.

“Hey,” Stiles says suddenly, directing Peter’s attention to the left. There’s movement under the water, and then, quite abruptly, a woman breaks the surface, and a second after that, a girl - somehow choking on water and sobbing hysterically at the same time - is dragged forward as the woman begins swimming towards them. She remains out of the floodlights so it takes Peter a few moments to realize she’s a nymph, with hair like dark moss and almost translucent skin. She thrusts the girl at them once she gets close enough, and both Peter and Stiles bend down to pull her onboard.

Stiles swears when one of her thrashing hands nails him in the eye but he doesn’t let go as he helps Peter dump her into the boat.

“Calm her down!” Peter barks at Jackson, who hastily leans down to do just that, although half his attention lingers bug-eyed on the little he can see of the naked woman in the water.

 _Fuck_ , Peter thinks. He moves to block Jackson’s line of sight even though it’s a bit late for that. Maybe they can wave it off as a hallucination?

“Thanks,” Stiles is saying to the nymph, who croons something back, revealing a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth, but even the language barrier can’t prevent Peter from getting the gist of what she’s saying, if only by her expression before she disappears back into the water - _She’s your problem now._

“Monster!” The girl suddenly shrills, still hacking up what sounds like half the inlet. “There’s- There’s monsters in the water! They’ve got freaky teeth and-”

“Hayden,” Jackson tries to interrupt, although he looks more than a little uneasy. “Maybe you were just seeing thi-”

“I was _not_ seeing things!” Hayden shrieks. She certainly has a set of lungs on her, especially for someone who was drowning mere minutes ago. “There are monsters! I saw them!”

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose before calling out over Hayden’s continued terrified rant, “Chris, report in and get us the fuck back to shore so we can at least drop these two off first before I brain them with the lifebuoy.”

Chris is already on the radio, although he spares a moment to grunt out with a wooden expression of irritation on his face, “We’re running low on fuel anyway.” The radio crackles, and Chris returns to it, “Yeah, we got another one...”

By the time Chris gets off the radio, Stiles has retrieved more towels for everyone, and Peter has glared Hayden into silence.

Does this count as bullying? Probably. Does Peter care? Not particularly.

And then Chris turns to them and delivers the best news Peter’s heard all night: “The other three have been found. We’re done.”

Thank the moon.

They end up dropping off the kids on a dock Peter is unfamiliar with. There’s a patrol boat anchored and idling though so Peter assumes that’s what’s taking the kids back to their parents.

“What if they talk?” Peter mutters, voice pitched low as two coast guards make their way over. “Are we banking on the adults not believing them?”

“Of course not,” Stiles sighs back, slumped in his seat and gingerly prodding at his eye. “Delilah will take care of it.”

Peter blinks, then looks over at the coast guards again. The woman reaches Hayden first, and even as the girl opens her mouth, no doubt to screech about monsters again, the woman places a gentle hand on her shoulder, and a flicker of silver curls from her fingertips and darts up the side of her face and in through her temple. Whatever she was about to say dies on her tongue, and her expression goes hazy like she’s been drugged. She’s passed off to the man, who ushers her to the patrol vessel.

Huh. Handy.

Delilah turns to Jackson, who’s been standing frozen on the dock and now jerks back a step before turning to Stiles, naked fear on his face. “Stiles? What’s going on? What- What did she just do?”

Stiles heaves another sigh before glancing at Jackson. “You’ll be fine. She’s just gonna make sure you’re okay to go home. Don’t worry so much.”

Jackson opens his mouth, no doubt ready to protest, but then Delilah is there, and a touch and another spark of silver later, Jackson’s expression also slackens, and he offers no further resistance as Delilah nods at them before escorting him away as well.

Peter glances at Stiles, who makes a face and settles back in his seat. “I need a shower and a bed. You good to go, Chris?”

Chris, who’s also been watching Stiles, only nods silently and turns to take them all home.

The storm’s finally died down to the point where Peter can sit without worrying about being tossed to the floor, and the shields have been raised to maximum strength again. By the time they get home, they’re relatively dry, but the wetsuit feels stiff on him, and all he wants to do is sleep for the next twelve hours.

“No work tomorrow,” Stiles murmurs as if reading his mind as they shiver their way up the steps and into the house. “Anybody called out to deal with an emergency gets the next work day off. So we can sleep in.”

Peter might’ve actually cheered if he had the energy for it. He thinks he had more energy before the fire and his coma. And then he very resolutely stops thinking about it. He can depress himself tomorrow.

They all hurry through perfunctory showers before collapsing into bed, not even bothering with doing any laundry. Peter will never say but he likes sleeping in the middle, with one lover at his back and the other at his front. Tonight, Stiles cuddles into his chest while Chris plasters himself to his back.

“I swear if anymore damn kids decide to take a dip in the storm,” Chris mutters gruffly as he reaches up to switch off the lamp. “I say we let the shark shifters save them.”

Peter sniggers tiredly, and even Stiles manages a laugh. It’s probably not a very _good_ response, but hell, they’ve done their good deed - they’re allowed to crack mean jokes about it afterwards.

“I’m probably gonna have to talk to Jackson tomorrow though,” Stiles mumbles. “I doubt Delilah fuzzed over that memory. And fifty fucking bucks says Lydia was the smart one.”

He sighs, snuggles closer, and then seems to fall asleep just like that.

“Who’s Lydia?” Peter asks after a moment.

He feels Chris shrug. “No idea.”

Hm. Well, he supposes they’ll both find out tomorrow. In the meantime…

Peter closes his eyes and lets his mind drift. He feels Chris settle more heavily against his back, and that’s the last thing he’s aware of before slumber sweeps him away as well.

 


End file.
